Black Ribbons
by GhostoftheMotif
Summary: The guillotine inspires a special sort of madness, and France tries to hold it at bay during the last days of the Reign of Terror. Contains historical figures.


Here's my Saturday update! It feels good to finally move this stuff here from my lj.

And now I'm off to find out what the hell happens in part two of The Pandorica Opens.

0o0o0o0o0

I knew before I opened my eyes that they would be there. I'd felt them tugging at my sheets, brief sharp pulls before their fingers fell through. The rustling of their grave clothes (not the rags they'd been buried or burned in; the finery they'd donned to spite me) surrounded my bed in a semicircle, but I knew their numbers stretched past my room and into the hall and manor beyond.

"Oh grave, where is thy victory?" I murmured through a twisted smile, my eyes still closed.

The whispering started, snatches of words they'd already said, cut up and fastened together to form new phrases that the dead could never make on their own. A few strains were sung, others rasped, some whimpered, a couple fell from the mouths of orators, but most were soft mumblings reserved for each other and not intended for me. I didn't mind. It was their presence that slighted me, not their petty accusations.

I sat up, the sheets slipping over my bare chest to pool at my waist. There were no cuts on my skin; cuts scarred, and I couldn't abide the flaws. The bruises though… Those would heal properly, and I wore them like a badge or a brooch. I was a symbol of revolution, after all.

"_France… France… éminence grise…" _They said it together, a collective. Their hands were at their sides, the women's clutching neatly at their skirts, the men's in loose fists. It was the clothing that affronted me most; despite the stations many of them had in life, the fashion was from the height of Versailles, the color a metallic grey accented with blue and white.

Black ribbons, the width of three fingers, were tied around the specters' necks.

"_France…_" They repeated, my name spoken slightly out of synch so that it reverberated in the room.

"Yes, yes, I hear you." I ran my fingers through my hair tiredly. The strands that touched my neck were matted once again with new blood. My nails fought through the wet tangles, snagging in the knots that should not have been there. I brought my hand away with a look of distaste and showed them the red on my fingertips. "See what you've done?"

The question sparked expressions of indignation. "_Regicide, parricide! Devourer of children!_"

I sighed, weary of them already. It was always the same words, their little epitaphs of murder. "You ceased to be my children when your arrests were signed. I believe beheading is a fairly clear sign of disownment. You are traitors, non?" The words sounded proud but tasted like salt.

There were only two occasions when I empathized with the condemned: the moment just before the blade fell when I could feel their thoughts, and when they appeared to me later as wraiths. It was only empathy, however, _not_ sympathy, and it was brief and fleeting. There was too much manic bloodlust inherit in me from the crowd to spare them more than a few seconds of understanding.

"_Innocent!_" It was a shriek. For the moment that the word cracked in the air, their skin flashed rotten, eyes bulging and white, mouths opening wider than they should have been able to. Their tongues were black, their nails claw-like and caked with gravedirt and ash as they slashed in my direction.

The display was something I'd long since become accustomed to. "_Chacun á son goût,_" I shrugged, waving one hand dismissively. "You served your purpose, and your purpose was to appear guilty. Your deaths inspired the rest of my children. You've given them fear and the virtue derived from that fear." A smile coiled my lips. "Terror isn't a very becoming sort of loyalty, but it is loyalty nonetheless. You considered yourselves French, did you not? Aren't you pleased that you have helped me?"

"_It is you that should have helped us!_"

It was a young woman who spoke, younger than twenty but older than sixteen. I vaguely remembered her; she was a rather handsome girl, but she had died undeniably unattractively. She'd sobbed and screamed, begging and pleading blamelessness. Yes, I'd abandoned her, but the least she could have done was die with the finesse appropriate to one born on my soil.

I arched an eyebrow. "Oh, cheri, but I gave you a death with meaning! Isn't that more desirable than shriveling into an old hag or starving in the fields?"

She screeched her response, but I didn't look at her. Instead I sighed and rose to my feet, forsaking the warmth of my bed. These ghosts were only mayflies, their lives so brief and their deaths so transparent that they could not muster the strength to matter. Amassed together, however, they'd managed to bring me to a new era. I gave them a fraction of my attention out of courtesy, but only until they became an annoyance.

I dressed, ignoring the constant hum of anger behind me. Thinking of where I was going, I chose blue and gold with white underneath; the colors were flattering on me, and I needed to be flattering. With slender hands I tied my hair behind my neck and turned away from my wardrobe.

My fingers were trembling.

I had not even left my room, and yet I could feel the danger and dissension peeling from the men with whom I would soon go to meet. The self-possessing politicians that I had tied myself to were fumbling their power, and with their uncertainty I became uncertain.

Traitors thrived in my streets, bred in shadows, waited to tear out my throat (_my children)._ They should be condemned, arrested, slaughtered before they could reach me (_dragged to an unjust death in front of hundreds_). No mercy, no clemency, there was safety in numbers dying (_too many_). They had to be discovered and punished so that I may live (_at what cost?_). It was necessary (_for their ambition, but not for my life_).

My ghosts did not part for me as I made my way to the door, but it didn't matter. I could easily walk through them, and I did so with closed eyes. Seeing their faces made me ill.

0o0o0o0o0

The carriage waiting for me was not empty, but the coachmen couldn't have known that.

Louis smiled at me as I slid into the seat across from him. "_Good morning, France._" His fingertips brushed idly over the black ribbon at his throat. "_You seem unwell. Have my subjects caused you distress? I asked them to grant you a few nights of peace._"

"Ah, but you were never very proficient in garnering obedience," I replied, voice smooth. My eyes drifted to the empty space on my former king's right. The seat was normally occupied by a womanish shape of extravagant frills, though the face was admittedly more drawn and somber than it had ever been in life. "Will your wife not be joining us?"

"_She's consoling the newly dead. Yesterday was a particularly productive day for your… benefactors._" The revulsion in that one word was poorly concealed even though it was spoken delicately. But Louis had never been adept at such things. A little subtlety might have aided him somewhat.

I rested my chin on one hand and turned my eyes to the window. I purposefully did not focus on any one person our carriage passed. If I did so, I could sometimes sense the crazed thrill pooling in their blood, and I'd be driven to the same madness. It was crucial that I kept myself calm and present for today's events. "The men you call my benefactorsare patriots ridding me of malcontents," I responded finally.

He followed my gaze, observing the Paris view outside. The morning sun cast the streets in shadow and dusted the roofs in ashen light. He seemed eager to avoid looking at the populace as well, film-covered eyes cast to the sky instead. I wondered if he diverted his stare because it was too easy to perceive the citizens as his family's murderers. "_Malcontents…? Is that what you call the people trying to exercise the freedoms you fought to give them?_"

"Exercising freedom is not the same as abusing it," I answered curtly. The statement came simply, rehearsed and unquestioned. Nevertheless, it burned in my throat.

Louis leaned back in his seat, and not for the first time I wondered how he didn't sink through it as he did everything else. "_I wasn't aware a small disagreement spoken offhandedly could be regarded as abuse._"

"You weren't aware of a great many things, my liege," I said, a sudden flicker of anger making my voice low. It was faint and sheltered like a small flame to a smaller wick. "Or do you still wonder why you lost your head?"

"_Be not afraid of them that kill the body, and afterward have no more that they can do_," Louis recited, smiling the same weak, tremulous smile that he had possessed in life. "_I have not lost my head, France. It's right here._" He tapped one finger to the black ribbon. "_You didn't kill me, only moved me._ _Just as you have moved all of these others. Or do you still wonder why you're being haunted?_"

"I'm not being haunted." My eyes fell half-lidded, and I gave a breath of a laugh. Unwittingly I found myself observing at a group of men outside, moving quickly enough to be even with the carriage. Their faces were twisted in expressions of perverse fervor, and the now familiar bloodlust rooted itself in my chest after a moment of scrambling for purchase. "I'm simply mad."

When I was answered with silence, I looked away from the window. I was alone, the seat in front of me showing no sign of ever having been occupied.

I swallowed and carefully manufactured a smile; if I didn't do so now, I wouldn't be able to adopt it in time to be used at my destination. If I appeared to be wavering, it would only give the traitors fuel for their words. The wolves had been content with the slaughter of lambs, but now they were baring their teeth at each other.

Underneath the façade, I knew that I was more a lamb. My people were not the only victims of terror; mine merely wore the guise of paranoia and increasingly desperate pride.

0o0o0o0o0o0

When I stepped out onto the street, it was into a crowd. The air was warm and there was no wind, but a palpable shiver ran through the throng. Apprehension struck me the moment my eyes found the source of their attention. Truth be told, I'd known what was happening the moment my feet hit the cobblestones. I didn't bother trying to subdue the mania that coiled around my people and then into me; I'd learned it was futile. I could almost see it, a tangible black thread biting through my chest and twining around my ribs.

"But there weren't supposed to be any today…" I murmured, fists falling loose. "They were supposed to be postponed…" A low rumble started from the front of the crowd, rippling outwards until it reached the outer edge where I was standing. The thread yanked me to my knees, and I bent like a puppet. With a soft explanation of surprise, I reached out to catch myself. My hands scraped against the stone street, leaving a light swath of red that turned to brown in the dust.

"Jacques deMorgan!" The name of the man to be beheaded was called over the leering laughter of the masses.

I lifted my head even though I couldn't see through the moving, shouting bodies of the men and women in front of me. There were already new spectators pressing around my sides and behind me, but they didn't spare a glance to the kneeling nation among them. I could feel their restlessness and anticipation. It struck me like a sickness, high and insatiable. Blood of a traitor, one life closer to the end of fear, the furthering of freedom, death of a conspirator, lesson for the wicked, salvation of a country-

-_n't understand. How did this happen? Where are my sons? Are they still in the prison, or were they sent before me? My wife, my daughter… the guards, they were… Where are my sons? This isn't justice, I didn't even speak. I can't see! My eyes are open, but I can't see. Why are they cheering? I only wanted bread. God, help me, help me, hel_-

I didn't hear the blade fall, only the fanatical shouts that followed.

I brought a bloodied hand to my mouth and laughed, a shrill, bubbling, mad sound that wouldn't stop. "Dormez vous?" I sang through a breathless break in the laughter. It was always the same. I felt them die and immediately afterward was so overtaken by the passion of the crowd that I didn't care. Pinpricks of elation blossomed over my skin, and I knew it would turn to hysteria.

The back of my neck stung. One dead man couldn't make me bleed as I had that morning, but there would be a line of raised skin. I brushed my fingertips over the grazed flesh and then surged to my feet. The feverish strength in the people around me propelled me forward. They were beautiful in their fervor, twisted and almost tragic. The way I fit seamlessly among them in both movement and expression only served to worsen the euphoric sensation singing in my head. I danced to the side, spun slowly and heedlessly in place, all the while moving further down the street.

A woman was walking beside me, and unthinkingly I caught her hand and kissed it. Her skirt hissed over the cobblestones as she spun towards me in surprise. The fabric seemed red, but maybe it was blue.

My mouth left blood on her fair skin.

"_They're waiting for you. Why are you wasting time here?_"

"Hmm?" I looked up to the owner of the voice, still bent over my child's hand. Straightening, I recognized the solid and familiar build. With a tilt of the head, I let go of the woman, and she backed hurriedly away in alarm. "Danton…?" I queried hazily.

He was framed by the sun, his body close in appearance to dense fog. The dead politician smiled a rough half-smile. "_You haven't forgotten me, then._"

As if I could. This was the man that had gone to the guillotine with a sneer and words as full of confidence and humor as though he was speaking at a festival.I could still remember the last thing he'd said. I heard the words in his mind even if I was too far away to hear his voice ("Above all, don't forget to show the people my head. It will be worth looking at.").

"_You should be at the assembly. It wouldn't do for you to miss _his_ fall from grace, now would it?" _Danton spoke with a laugh and walked ahead of me.

My mouth dried and my heart did a double-beat, but I followed. Whether his suspicion was founded or not, I would have to see on my own.

0o0o0o0o0

It happened too quickly for me to understand.

What started as a speech escalated into chaos.

Saint-Just seemed ready to recover when the first accusation was thrown. His response possessed promising eloquence, but the exclamations shouted over it rendered it powerless. With a look of scandalized disbelief, he took a step back on the dais. He seemed dazed beneath the sudden onslaught, unable to find any sort of defense for himself.

Saint-Just's eyes were wide as he raised his hands in front of him in an attempt to calm his colleagues. They only became more incensed, and after the first cry for his removal was sounded, his arms fell limp at his sides. He took another step back, and another, and another, and then Robespierre was at his side.

The reputation and charisma of the interceder caused a momentary lapse in the passionate allegations. They appeared to falter, turning their heads to the side to seek murmured support from each other. A smile appeared on Robespierre's lips, and he lifted his hands with the same beseeching magnetism that he turned on the crowds. In that brief flash of his confidence, I felt hope.

Then the first politician rose to his feet from the audience, his words of blame soon taken up by the men on either side of him. From across the room a second figure stood, and then a third, a fourth, and then they were standing up together, and I lost count. Their shouts drowned out Robespierre's entreaties, and even each other's accusations, but the dull roar of the jumbled words only served to better communicate their uniting fire.

Robespierre joined Saint-Just in silence. He watched, speechless as his comrades put voice to their conviction in his treason. I was too far away to know for sure, but I believed that he was shaking. There was fear in his face, and I realized he was sensing his own ruin and his inability to stop it. A part of me felt panic; another part felt that I might still be pardoned.

His lips parted, but they only closed again. He too took an involuntary step back, the clamor in front of him seeming to weigh on his shoulders until they rounded.

"The blood of Danton chokes him!" someone shouted.

There was a dry chuckle from beside me. "_It does, you know,_" Danton sneered. His eyes seemed to glow as he watched Robespierre buckling beneath the onslaught. "_You aren't the only one I haunt, France._"

When the calls for their arrests were sounded and repeated on all sides, I wondered how long it would be before the men on the dais in front of me were given black ribbons. Would they haunt me as well or would these phantoms finally give me peace? Was it enough that the mortal monsters would be put in the ground, or did they want me too?

A laugh, feverish and disjointed, welled up in my throat, adding my voice to the accusers.

0o0o0o0o0

Notes:

- "Oh grave where is thy victory?" From 1 Corinthians 15:55, which says _O death where is thy sting? O grave where is thy victory?_

- _éminence grise_: power behind the throne

- Regicide: murder of a king; Parricide: murder of kinsman (in this case, his children)

- _Chacun á son gout_: To each his own taste

- "Be__not afraid of them that kill the body, and afterward have no more that they can do." From Luke 12:4.

- "Dormez vous?" Are you sleeping? The man who died was named Jacques. Reference to the song Frere Jacques.


End file.
